


Bright to See

by Ladycat



Series: Married [7]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, Pegging, always a girl Rodney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slowly, carefully, John fishes out a sinuous set of black straps, all twisted together, and holds it up between them and just stares at it. Eventually, he shakes it back and forth, midair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright to See

Their bedroom is airy and bright.

It’s like something out of _Better Homes and Gardens_ : a glossy snapshot of the windows that line one wall, covered in sheer blinds that flirt playfully with the early morning breeze. Turn the page and there’s sunlight dancing across every surface, echoes of yellow warming the white down comforter, the cream carpet. The next shot focuses on the honey blonde furniture that is sleek without looking cold, anchoring the room from the clouds it seems to nest in.

There’s even an additional photo of the bed, decadently arranged with the happy wife and her doting husband, asleep. She is behind him, arm around his waist. He is deliciously bare-chested.

The title of the piece would be something about marital bliss and happiness, a fantasy created for the ecstatic new bride.

Except it’s not _Meredith’s_ fantasy.

Bedrooms, despite the other things that may occur within their walls, are for _sleeping_. Sleeping requires darkness. She’s worked at top-secret facilities and their lack of regular hours for most of her adult life, so bedrooms have always held dark colors and darker blinds, with curtains to block out the horrible, horrible sunlight.

Now they have _gauzes_.

Pressing her cheek against John’s shoulder, she can’t bring herself to mind. Oh, she wants to, remembering arguments that always ended with John kissing her and whispering that it was _all right, I’ll take care of it, you’ll love it, you’ll see, it’ll be perfect_.

And it sort of _is_ really perfect. Sleeping in sunlight is a new and surprisingly enjoyable experience (she doesn’t _think_ it has to do with John’s scent on her pillows), like she’s hovering weightless, thirty thousand feet away from all her troubles. The door closes like an airlock, sealing her away from everything but the king size bed that she is in _love_ with, because it holds her and John.

A soft huff of breath that isn’t quite a sigh, isn’t loud enough for a snore interrupts her musing. “Morning,” she says, kissing his shoulder where the bone presses against thin skin.

“You’re up early. Want me to – ”

“No.” She covers his reaching hand with hers, twining their fingers together. “I’m… possibly enjoying the warmth.”

“You mean you like the sun,” he chuckles. “Told you.”

“Yes, fine, your interior decorating skills are as advertised.”

Not that he _has_ advertised them. Honestly, Meredith wishes he would, since his current smugness is all about her pleasure in the room and nothing at all about his methods. There’s nothing wrong with decorating skills, of course. It saved them the outrageous cost of a professional, after all, which Meredith is definitely pleased about. It’s just fabric and color, how hard can it really be? Although that, too, exacerbates the not-problem. It _isn’t_ a problem. It isn’t.

But now she’s _thinking_. She’s never had a problem thinking, before. Thinking is a good thing, responsible for her job and her prestige and possibly the man still grinning at her, sleepy and smug. Thinking is something she brags about because there’s really no question that she’s better at thinking than anyone else.

Except. Except now she’s thinking things she doesn’t really like.

Like how her husband, John Sheppard, has _interior decorating skills_. 

She tries not to be petty about it. Stereotypes are ridiculous: even if they’re often true, frequency does not imply causation. Without it, it’s just rumor and gossip mongering and that just makes it worse. There’s no real defense against that. No matter how much she tries to dismiss it, the cultural link is _there_. 

So she thinks it, just briefly, about how male interior designers tend not to be the straightest of arrows. It’s appalling that she does so – her pettiness is a different sort – and if she were interested in time-wasting things like being ashamed of herself, she probably would be.

But she still thinks it.

And she remembers that her husband isn’t, exactly, heterosexual.

“ _Leave_ ,” John says, dreamily, voice rough and a little high with leftover sleep. “We have over seventy two hours of continuous, uninterrupted leave. We haven’t had that much time off since our honeymoon.”

As always, her hand drops to his stomach where the thin appendectomy scar resides. It’s barely visible, but she can feel the raised, knotted skin. “It’s about time they let us use the rest of our days,” she grumbles. “And it’s a week. You were conked out when Carter called and told us that the President’s visit has been canceled, so she told us just don’t come back until next Monday.”

“When the hell was that?” He rolls over, deftly sliding an arm under her shoulders and depositing her tucked against his own. It’s completely instinctive and unpreventable, no matter how often she half-heartedly growls about it. “I slept through a phone call?”

“Yes, you slept through a phone call. I’m sure that will figure heavily in your next performance review, you ass. Will you relax?” she demands, pushing against his chest in annoyed command. “Official word won’t go out until tomorrow, when we’ll receive a phone call you _won’t_ sleep through. Sam just wanted to give us a heads up.”

And possibly say some things that Meredith isn’t going to repeat.

“Is there a problem? Did something happen?”

“Some foreign dignitary announced he was showing up to talk about something unimportant and the President decided he’d stop by next month, provided no one blows something up in my absence.” She yawns, completely unconcerned, and starts running her fingers through his chest hair. It’s springy and soft and clings to her like there’s static in the air. “Sam said it wasn’t serious. Relax.”

“So we get a whole week off, huh?” He grins, boyish and startlingly innocent. He loves her like that, with friendship and trust and companionship before it ever approaches sex.

Not that he’s reticent about _that._ Her grin takes on a lascivious edge. “Uh huh. A whole week with nothing at all to do…”

His kiss burns like magnesium, bright white and blinding, all the way down to her toes. “I wouldn’t say _nothing_ ,” he breathes, then kisses her again.

She’s already opening her legs, eager to feel him against her, when her earlier thoughts resurface. It’s been on her mind a lot in recent weeks and she’s made… plans. If they’ve got nothing but time –

Still kissing with passion she sometimes can’t really believe she’s capable of, Mer pushes until he’s flat on his back, straddling his hips. Clothing has a tendency to vanish like this, so she’s not all that surprised when her naked heat rests against his stomach, each inhale pushing against her. It’s tempting to just – but no, she’s got a plan, dammit, so she grips his hair and forces his head back, ignoring the way his body arches. “I want to ask you something.” 

John eyes flutter, _hmm_ ing in distracted agreement. He’s too busy chasing after her mouth, so she sits upright, denying him.

“You’re hot when you glare at me,” he teases, then winces out a laugh and says, “fine, go ahead.” He looks attentive, at least, if still more interested in other things. Big hands slide under her thin shirt, hot against her skin. 

“About before.” That tells him nothing, of course, since attentive doesn’t mean _telepathic_ and his fingers skim over her wing-bones, scratching lightly. Tiny lightning bolts of pleasure make her arch, throat locked – god, it feels _so good_. She slaps his shoulder in retaliation, “Stop that, I really want to know.”

“About?”

“About you and other people. Um. You and men. Other men.”

He freezes.

“Is that not okay?” she asks, bewildered by the blank look he’s giving her. “Is there suddenly a line that I don’t know about, again? Because you keep saying that I can ask you anything about anything and then you keep looking like _this_ when I do. It’s very confusing.”

The last comes out plaintively and more upset than she wants him to know. She hates being upset around him. It brings out his protective instincts and as useful as that is, it’s not conducive for sex. She still wants sex. Just.

“John?”

His hands move first, smoothing down around her hips to push her down a few inches. It makes an entirely unsexy sound – ew – but then she’s oh, oh, right above his cock, the length of it hot against her slit, the head perfectly positioned against her clit. She gasps, hips twitching because it feels _good_ , always does. It’s got to be uncomfortable for him, all her weight on him _right there_ , but he seems to like this position and she really, really doesn’t argue with it.

“This isn’t helping my confusion, you know.” Her voice wavers a little; she ignores it. “I just – I’ve been thinking about it, and I have questions. Please?”

Some tension she can’t understand drifts out of his shoulders, absently dragging her shirt over her head. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Ask.”

Not the most welcoming permission ever granted, but Meredith McKay doesn’t need to feel welcome.

“What did you do? With other guys?”

“I slept with them.”

The flat answer is probably given deliberately because a hot wave of annoyance melts through her awkwardness. “Yes, obviously. Hence your reluctantly telling me that you have, in the past, slept with other men. I’m asking you _how_ you slept with them.” Nervousness creeps back in immediately, tightening her throat and making her sound thin. “Have you given a blow-job before?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you like it?”

He gives an uncomfortable shrug. “Yeah. You know I do.”

“What are you – ohhh. My fingers.” Okay, yes, in that light she does know that he enjoys it. John enjoys sucking lots of things, like her fingers and sometimes her toes (although not often, because she’s ticklish) and skin, leaving hot, red marks all over her body. He likes sucking on her clit a lot, too.

Thinking about it makes her shiver and rock, wet against his cock. She really, really likes that he’s so oral.

She catches his brows creasing in confusion before his face smoothes out again. His hands don’t hold her hips so tightly anymore, though. “Anything else?”

“Did you do sixty nines?”

That gets her a trace of a smirk. “Yes, Mer, I did sixty nine before I met you.”

“Yes, yes, I know that. I meant with a man. Did you sixty-nine with another guy?”

“Yeah. I have.”

“I’m not going to ask about handjobs, since I think every soldier in the history of warfare has given and received those before.” She’s also carefully not asking about _who_ these previous partners are. That’s not the point of her inquiry.

“You have such a high esteem of us soldiers.” John’s still smirking just a tiny, tiny bit, lips pursed and furled like sail cloth that doesn’t know if it wants to bell out or go slack against the mast.

“That’s basic biology, _Colonel_. It may be voodoo but I can corroborate from personal experience that you put two warm bodies in a high adrenaline situation and there’s going to be sex afterward. You remember P3X-859, I’m assuming? I was worried I’d scarred you.”

There it is: the smirk bells out fully, his eyes finally warming as he relaxes beneath her. “Yes, Mer, I remember you scratching my arms raw.”

“Mm. That was a good day. Not a good mission, but – ”

“But a good day, yeah.”

“What about penetrative sex?” She works hard not to bite her lip, since that’s an obvious tell. “Have you done that?”

The smirk doesn’t go away but it’s a long few seconds before John says, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve done that.”

“Top or bottom?”

John crinkles his forehead at her, turning into a mini shar-pei of confusion, even as he brings his knees up against her ass, thumbs describing warm circles into her hipbones. “Mer…”

“Top or bottom?” she repeats, stubbornly.

“Both.”

“But?” She knows her husband, knows the dark places in his voice when he’s only telling her only some of the truth.

“But nothing. I’ve done both.”

She wants to hit him for being so evasive. Instead she glares, brain working furiously – and _oh_. “But you liked bottoming more,” she answers for him. “You like being fucked.”

For a long, painful moment there’s just the sound of them breathing. Then John flushes that ruddy, muddy red that means _painful_ embarrassment, locking his eyes on hers before gritting out a sharp nod. “Yeah. I like getting fucked.”

She has to look down. She’s not proud of making him admit it, even if part of her whispers she’s right, she’s right, she was right and it’s okay. John’s eyes are too easy to read, sometimes, and open with such vulnerability that it makes her want to curl up and hide. It’s hers to see, and she loves that he lets her behind the smirking mask – but this shouldn’t be a moment of vulnerability. There should never be shame in their bed.

“Thank you for telling me,” she tells his neck. The chain from his dog-tags is a cool river of silver against the base of his throat and she twists a finger in the metal. “I’m not trying to… I just want to _know_.” Absently, she pulls until the fine grains of his skin turn white, a halo of pink rimming the edges.

His cock twitches.

“Have you done it a lot?” She releases the pressure, watching blood flood into the abused areas leaving it hot when she touches it. This time, she triples the chain around her forefinger, pinking the tip. “Penetrative sex, I mean. Topping and bottoming.”

“No, not – ” his voice catches, “ – a lot.”

“But enough to know that you like one better than the other?”

She’s rocking, she realizes, grinding herself down against his cock, which throbs in echoed reaction. Pulling the chain tightest yet, she doesn’t jump when his hand curls around hers, holding it with her.

“Enough to know I enjoy being fucked, yes.”

The sound of his rough, rasping voice makes her breathing speed up. “I’m going to leave bruises.”

His eyes are huge, not a hint of green or gold against a pupil that always reminds her of a black hole, dark and irregular and always expanding. Greedy. “You’ll kiss ’em better.” 

“Do you miss it?”

The question should have broken the tension. It should’ve left them both awkward and uncomfortable, again. But John just swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing against the tight choker of metal in his skin, “Sometimes.”

She immediately eases the pressure, John’s hands falling away as she tilts his jaw up so she can watch his skin darken moment by moment. Her breasts brush against his chest so they both shiver, kisses left damp and shiny on his neck.

“Do you want it?” The chain goes back to where it was, fitting over marks that don’t yet look like links. She winds it tighter, then tighter still, and John’s fingers circle her wrists, thumbs a brush of warmth where her pulse bangs blue, blue, blue. “Do you want something sliding inside you? Fingers and lube, first. I read about it.” His neck is blue-white, now, like her wrists, thin skin and pounding blood. “You have to go slowly and stretch someone out. Lots of lube, wet and slippery. You like it when I touch you there. When I rim you.”

John makes a choked noise, managing a strangled, “Yeah.”

“You do. You love it, but you think I don’t. So you turn me around and go down on me. You don’t let me get my fingers slick, let me push them inside of you, one after the other. But you want me to. Or maybe you don’t?”

She releases, watching avidly as John’s neck goes from white, to pink, to mottled red.

“Maybe you don’t want it slow. Maybe you want it fast. Hard. Some backroom, somewhere, only enough lube so it doesn’t hurt. You still feel it, though, splitting you open, someone’s hot, heavy cock pushing into you.” She’s dripping, by now, grinding against his cock, slick from both of them. 

They’re breathing hard, chests heaving and she wants to bite: his jaw, his nipples, his neck where the skin is going to darken spectacularly later. “John,” she says, voice breaking. “John, do you – ”

He rears up, sudden and angry, trapping her in a vise between his chest and his knees, forcing her still as he kisses so hard her lips throb. “Are you asking me if I need someone else?” he snarls, sex-soaked and furious, fingers digging into her skin. “Because the answer is fucking _no_. If you’re asking me – god, Mer, are you asking me if I’m going to cheat on you – ”

The possibility shocks her into laughter, incongruous and wrong, but honest. She jiggles against him, belly expanding against his own and it’s wrong, it’s so wrong, but it’s still so _hot_. “I’m not, you’re not. You’re not cheating on me,” she says, certain like one of the Laws, like gravity always weighs things down, and energy equals mass times the speed of light squared. If John is married, then he does not cheat.

John Sheppard doesn’t leave _anyone_ behind.

Her sincerity makes him go limp. He’s still holding her too tight, crunched up all around her and it hurts being caught so close, but his face is slack, now, and there’s no more anger in the vise grip of his hands. “You’re not,” he says, and stops to inhale raggedly. “You’re not asking me if I’m going to suddenly go crazy and run down to the nearest pick up bar and – ”

She kisses away the question, sucking fiercely on his tongue. “Don’t be _stupid.”_

Then, suddenly, she’s holding _him_ up, his face pressed heavily into the growing curls of her hair and it’s only her desperately locked body that stops them from falling. “I don’t know what you’re asking me,” he whines, muffled.

Replication and then extension are the height of good science. Mer gathers up the tags that have fallen down his back, twisting the chain until it just starts to pull. He whimpers, his cock twitching in immediate reaction, even if both of them aren’t as eager as before. “Are you done being stupid? For at least the next few hours?”

His chuckle sounds suspiciously watery, but it’s amusement nonetheless. “Yeah. I promise.”

“Then let go of me so I can get up. I’m losing feeling in my legs and pins and needles are not conducive for sex.”

He obeys by degrees, slithering back with first legs, then arms and torso. “Stay,” he whispers and his hips rock up in temptation. It’d be so easy, just hitch herself up enough that he can slide inside, to lean back against his knees remain triangled behind her, fingers laced as she rocks up and – 

“It’s worth it.” She hopes so.

John pouts at her, but his arm is rock steady as he helps her climb off of him – no pins and needles yet, but she’s more wobbly than she likes – and then onto the floor. The bag is hidden behind the mirror and she has to contort awkwardly to get it. John makes a rude noise, but he’s happy enough to welcome her back with wet, sloppy kisses that go right to the core of her. She’s back on top of him before she can think, his hands dragging her thighs up higher against his torso, when the bag makes a horribly disconcerting crinkling sound.

“I got you something.” She has to push back onto her haunches to remember how to speak. “A present. I just had to be sure.”

Because John _does_ like being fingered and rimmed, and she has done research, sitting in her chair in her office, the one they designed in shades of dark red and darker brown, earth to the bedroom’s arching sky, rubbing against the seam of her jeans as she clicked through pictures and reviews and thought maybe, maybe, _maybe_.

“I like all your presents,” John reminds her. He does, too, even the ones that are weird or practical because she doesn’t know what else to give him.

She knows the exact moment he makes his way through filmy tissue paper to the actual gift within: his body goes completely still, not even breathing, and his expression is so very blank it’s frightening. John is never _blank_ , his face too mobile for that, the heart of him too powerful, for him to ever pull it off correctly. So now that he’s looking at nothing with a face full of the same, Mer tries not to bite her lip and wonder if she’s done something really, really wrong. 

Slowly, carefully, John fishes out a sinuous set of black straps, all twisted together, and holds it up between them and just stares at it. Eventually, he shakes it back and forth, midair.

Not speaking is _killing_ her, but she can’t. John isn’t like her, he doesn’t put everything together in just a glance –

“Is it battery operated?” 

– except when he does.

He doesn’t wait for an answer, saying, “Where’s the – yeah, I see it.” His voice is tight enough to be falsetto, the way it only gets when he’s achingly turned on, and Meredith finally relaxes. The blank look is bleeding away, changing as he lays it out over his hands to examine the tiny pockets that look almost like the pockets on a TAC vest. That look is one of the reasons she bought it, but now she’s having second thoughts.

“I know it’s not really pretty, or dainty – ”

“Stand up,” John interrupts her, gruff and clumsy with eagerness. “Stand up, I want to see you put it on.” 

Mer licks her lips. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s – yeah.” He helps her stand, bed dipping alarmingly under each foot, canting a shoulder up for her to rest a hand on as the slick material goes over first one foot, than the other. She’s bent over the waist to reach him, balance shot to hell, so he slowly draws it up her legs, over her thighs until she’s shivering from goose bumps and he kisses her, tongue fast and accurate, directly over her clit before settling the strap-on gently in place.

“Does it feel okay? It’s it comfortable?”

She wiggles her hips just to tease him. Honestly, it feels strange. It cuts her lower than pants or even the low, lacy underwear she’s bought for him. It’s not meant to cover, though, so she tries not to feel self-conscious that it doesn’t. “It’s fine. It fits.”

John tugs, pulling her back down to her knees and buries his face in her belly, spreading kisses and soft nips until she’s squirming and tugging at his ears. “John, I want – I need to get – from the – ”

He responds by using his clever, dangerous fingers to find the _on_ button and click it.

She gasps, arching into his hold as vibration arches through her, centered around her clit, and radiating along the length of her. “Oh, oh, oh, _John_!”

“Too fast, huh?” He fiddles without aide from the instruction manual until the frantic jolts lower to something she can think through. “Sorry,” he tells her stomach, kissing the marks he’s made.

She cups his neck and rubs her thumb where she knows it hurts. It’s not vengeance so much as complimentary: yin for yang, mark for mark. Hers for his. Blood and heat build all around them and she wants this, wants it so _much_.

“Can I?” she asks, gulping. “I didn’t get a dildo, I thought we could use the grey one that you like to, um, fondle before you use. But can – I want to, John, I really, really want to. On your back, I want to see you, can we? I know that it’s better on hands and knees, after a while, and I think it’s a while, at least since you’ve been with me,” because he doesn’t cheat, she’s never even thought that he might no matter how much he might want a cock inside of him, “but I want to _see_ you.”

Her voice breaks and it’s humiliating. But John just kisses her, settling her into his lap, hands stroking the bottoms of her breasts, and kissing until the nervous, fluttering feeling instead of her, the one that doesn’t have to do with sex or vibrators or possibilities, settles. “You have lube?”

She nods so hard hair falls into her face, strands sticking to her cheeks. “I bought extra just in case.”

“That’s my girl,” he says, and his kisses taste like _trust_ , like she thinks it must taste like, like apples and sweet caramel burnt and lasting. “Always prepared.”

There’s an awkward moment when he digs through the nightstand drawer – she follows the lines of his arm, forearms corded and dark and _mm_ – to extract both the dildo she’s specified and the jumbo bottle of lube. Fitting the dildo into the harness should’ve been sexy, but it’s mostly just frustrating – eagerness and the steady buzz of the vibrator make her squirm – and really, really unsexy.

Then John turns her hand palm up and pours out a generous amount of clear liquid and he – her breath catches, gone because he’s leaning back against the pillows, hands under his knees to hold his legs up and apart.

It’s not sexy. It’s really not sexy, with his legs hairy hanging in the air and his feet practically in her face, god, she could bang into them, and his cock is there, hard against his stomach, ass exposed from canted hips and there’s nothing at all sexy about this.

Except how _everything_ is suddenly so hot she can’t bear it.

“I wanted to rim you.” Not that she cares any longer, running her slick palm against the curve of his ass, to cup his sac and squeeze it the way that makes him moan every time. “I wanted to push you on your belly and rim you for hours.”

The position opens him wide so she can see exactly where his skin shades to secret pink, where her fingers will push inside. She rubs around the entrance before carefully starting to press.

“Next time.” His eyes are fathomless, locked on hers with focused determination. “You can – _gnng_ , yeah, that’s – that’s it – do that next time.”

His pulse flutters in his neck, banging frantically. Her marks are still there, faded slightly with time, but she knows they’ll be black by tomorrow.

There’s nothing but smooth, tight heat around her finger. There’s no comparison, her mind blank but for how he _squeezes_ her, hips eagerly hitching so that more of her slips inside. “You like this,” she whispers.

He chuckles, face tightening into pain that isn’t and it’s like he’s looking past skin and bone until she can _feel_ the way he pants out a “Yeah, yeah, Mer, god, more.”

She fingers him almost cautiously. This isn’t new, although usually she can only manage it when he’s inside her. Still, the motion is the same as she works first one, then another finger as deeply as she can push them. A lot of the literature she read mentioned things like _flowering_ which she guesses is florid code for something. John is quiet, breathing shallowly with the occasional swallowed grunt as she pushes and scissors.

He whimpers as she pulls them free.

“More lube, that’s all, I’m coming back.” John’s expression is odd, different than any she’s seen before. His eyebrows are up, like he’s angry or anticipatory, but his eyes are closed, lashes a sweep of ash against his cheeks. His mouth is mostly clamped shut, except when she pushes first one, then two, then a third thickly lubed finger inside him and starts to work him in earnest.

“It’s okay, John. I want to hear you. I like to hear you.”

His moans stay soft, if more continuous, legs widening as he starts falling into it. She’s working on automatic, unable to stop looking at the picture her husband makes, on his back, legs up, utterly and completely open before her, trusting her to make him feel good.

Her thighs are dripping.

“It’s okay,” she says again, “let me. Let me have it, please.”

And he gasps, harsh and breathless, body almost violently relaxing and suddenly she knows exactly what those stupid websites mean as he opens fully around her.

“Good, that’s it,” she croons, pressing a thumb hard behind his balls. “I’m going to slick myself now. Want to help?”

His eyes, when he opens them, are fuzzy and distant like he’s drunk. His arm and wrists shake, but his hand feels good as he smoothes his palm over the slick she pours, rubbing it along the length of the dildo – a flash and she sees a dick against his curved fingers, hears another man gasping in pleasure and it’s hot, but it’s just a fantasy, something she doesn’t even _want_ and knows he doesn’t either – and then against her skin, slick fingers against her labia and clit, sliding under the harness, and she arches with a silent cry, close so close.

“St-stop it,” she manages. “I want – ”

“Yeah,” he says, and he _sounds_ drunk, sounds thick and reedy and eager. “Mer, c’mon, hurry. Want you to fuck me.”

_“Jesus.”_

His smile is lazy and so damn _male_ as he slides a single, long finger inside of her even as he brings her hand up to his neck, dragging it against his skin until they can both grip the chain pooled there. She doesn’t pull it, just fists it until it bites into her own flesh as she comes.

John waits until she’s stopped heaving and can look him, offering a smile brighter than any star. “Fuck me slow, Mer.”

Her ears are still ringing, white streaking through her vision, but somehow that makes it better. Knowing that this isn’t him, isn’t her, but still _them_. It helps keep her calm as she lines up against his body and starts to press. “I’m not supposed to jerk,” she says in a small voice. God, the way his body opens for her, swallowing up the grey dildo as she carefully uses more and more pressure. His skin pulled tight but for the rim of pink, hidden and fragile, and she has to stop halfway.

Has to stop, leaning over him so that her breasts bump his chest, his chin, arms trembling because she’s fucking her husband. John is barely even _breathing_ rigid in a way she’s pretty sure doesn’t mean pain, because if he’s hurting, if she’s _hurt him_ – 

John gasps, inhaling raggedly, and rolls his hips. “More, more _now_.”

When his balls rest against her pelvis, skins scratchy with sweat where they’re pressed together, John somehow reaches down and flicks the vibrator to high.

She loses her mind after that.

He wants slow and she _tries_. She really does, thighs trembling and her back already complaining as she carefully pulls back before achingly, achingly slowly pushes back in. She settles into a rhythm without thinking, without realizing that this is the way he fucks _her_ a – liquid and gliding like he has no bones at all. His body opens more with every thrust, letting her experiment with different angles and pressure. She wants that moment, the one the websites spoke of. She wants to make him feel so _good_.

And then he goes rigid, face clenched tight in pain that really, really isn’t and grunts like the air’s been pushed out of him.

She freezes. “There?”

“Yeah,” he says, and he’s so beautiful.

She concentrates on replication, because that’s what a good scientist does, and it seems to work. John starts rocking his hips up to meet her, making these soft, whimpering little grunts that do more for her than the best vibrators in the world. A few minutes in and he says, “I need, on your shoulders, can I – ”

“Yes, of course, I can – ” and then there are knees against her shoulders and he’s rolling up like a June bug, lifting up to meet her. She wants to kiss him, needs to, but she focuses on doing this right, on fucking him slowly and thoroughly, turning his spine to jell-o and his knees lost to some forgotten memory, just like he fucks her.

A palm on her cheek feels like a jolt, so hot it’s scalding. She leans into it, leans forward, and somehow they fit together enough to kiss, sucking on his lips and tongue and oh, her hips are moving faster and John is actively crying out now, forceful _hunhs_ as she stops fucking slow and starts fucking _hard_ , faster and firmer and he turns to putty beneath her, lost somewhere behind closed eyes even as he kisses her, heels digging into her back and it’s good, it’s so good that she probably doesn’t even need the vibration that he somehow flicks higher because she’s going to come from this. Just the repeated pressure of the dildo banging up against her clit and John, John stretched out and beautiful, opening his eyes and they’re black, pure black as they look up at her like she’s _everything_ , sun and sky, holding him up, and she starts to shake with oncoming orgasm.

“John,” she says, frantic, “John, John, you have to – ”

He arches into the most perfect bow, shoulders digging into the bed as he tightens around the dildo she can’t feel, decorating his chest and his jaw and his _hair_ with come, her name on his lips.

It’s possible she screams through hers.

Her throat hurts like she has, anyway, groggily coming back to find she’s slumped over her husband’s chest, the dildo buried to the hilt inside of him. She has vague memories of him demanding she shift enough for him to reach the vibrator controls. It’s blessedly off, at least.

John’s eyes are nearly spinning when she focuses on him. He looks drugged, hazy with pleasure and completion. “I wish I could orgasm multiple times. You feel _so good_.”

She kisses him carefully. “We’re doing this again.”

His bliss-stupid smile turns goofy even as she works the dildo free. “Love you, too, Mer.” It’s what she meant, anyway.

Removing the harness is a comedy of errors she flushes through, almost dizzy with embarrassed blood in her cheeks, but John just laughs at her. He’s the one to find the towel they keep under the bed and does a hasty clean up, before cuddling her stiff body close until she melts into his arms and holds him as tightly as he holds her.

His mouth is wet against her temple, but she doesn’t mind. “I really do love you.”

“That’s just ’cause I make you come like a freight-train,” she whispers back, just as tenderly.

His laugh vibrates through both of them. “We really have a whole week off?”

Meredith tucks his face more firmly into his neck, carding through his hair. “We really have a whole week off.”

“Mm. Good. Gonna look like I have a collar.”

“Um.” She’s too exhausted to move, but she touches where she knows the bruises will form. “I didn’t mean to – ”

“Don’t even finish that,” he yawns, and snuggles in closer. “Meant it. So did I. Think about what we’re gonna have for lunch, instead.”

“Mm,” she murmurs. There’s a lamp on the beside table that looks vaguely like an airplane doing barrel rolls. It’s supposed to be art deco, nothing to do with planes, and is her one contribution to the room. This beautiful room that her husband designed so they could hide among the sun and the clouds, above the petty concerns of day to day.

She half-closes her eyes as the sunlight stripes over her face. “I want to blow you, later,” she whispers, which isn’t an answer except how it is. She falls asleep to his tired laughter and the room so filled with sunlight it feels like it’s glowing all around them.


End file.
